


Hours away

by Toxic_clockwork



Series: NlaNo [2]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stress, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toxic_clockwork/pseuds/Toxic_clockwork
Summary: Fitzgerald Blackburn is a creature to be feared and respected, but when their won fear beings to take hold. What can they do then?
Relationships: Implied Fitzgerald Blackburn/Math Velazquez
Series: NlaNo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997296
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Hours away

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should not that the unhealthy coping mechanism is overworking and not listening to your body. No form of s/h here I promise

Fitzgerald Blackburn was a creature to be feared if you were not privy to their good graces. Their form was imposing and bold, they seem to be the exact thing you don't want to see walking home in the middle of the night. They are also quite difficult to read; any emotion they were feeling looks like boredom or discomfort. Fitz liked it that way, their air of mystery was integral to their position amongst the spies. Those closest to them even had trouble identifying how they were doing from time to time.

Even in their times alone, in their own room in the spies base entirely silent, Fitzgerald themselves had trouble distinguishing their emotions. As each season went on the need to hide their fear and anxiety ramped up exponentially. Most of the team looked to Fitz for some sort of support. Not solely Fitz, Alex was a big staple point in the team’s morale, but when the other team figurehead comes to you for advice being stressed is a natural response. 

Mx.Blackburn sat alone in their room, the siesta was coming up and the spies were out of the postseason. For the next month the spies were free from this hell game, and Fitz had no idea what to do. They mindlessly starred the spoon in their teacup, the english breakfast aroma wafted into the air. The books on the shelves itched to be read, but most of them have never had their spines cracked.

The odd feeling in Fitz’s chest perplexed them, they have felt it before. It’s similar to the feeling they got during the first incineration that rocked their team, and then again during Day X. And they feel it now, alone in their room with nothing to focus their attention on without reminding them of the past that shall never come back.

A small rattle came from the spoon against the cup, how peculiar. Nothing else in the room seemed to be holding such a tremor, the floor still held still against Fitz bounding feet. The smoky plumes that feather off of the top of Fitz’s head seemed to sputter off faster than normal. A light but still noticeable smog lingered across the ceiling.

They let out a heavy and drained sigh, it's time for a break and they should take it! Yet, all the thoughts racing through their head about what might happen while they are trying to cool down. That is what seems to me plaguing them.

With a grumble Fitz stands from their seating chair, teacup still in hand but newly removing the spoon that made the rattle that signified their shake. They needed to do something, that something being some sort of work. There has to be some form of paperwork or documentation needed to be done.

Almost on autopilot Fitz feels their feet taking them to the closest briefing room to take up any assignments that may wait. The lannolium causes the clack of their shoes to echo down the empty cold halls. The sun seems to have set some time ago, the clocks read around 10:23PM. Most of the spies liked to turn in early and those who don’t will more thinly likely not bother them.

The door was already ajar when Fitz came up to it, taking a sip from their tea they pushed it open further. Empty. They bring up their shoulders and raise their head and try to clear their mind in the slightest way as they begin to go into work mode. 

There were a small amount of files scattered around on the pale table. Fitz had already shifted through a few of them, just some check ups on some old cases. But there were a few new research cases for Fitz to be able to sink a solid few hours into.

A sting operation isn’t exactly Fitz’s favorites to look into but they were desperate for something to do. These kinds of operations are tedious to look into, you need to find the history of the group, you need to find a solid in, and you need to figure out how they are going to trust you. 

Trust… somehow Fitz was giving a lot of trust. Son looked at them with starry eyes whenever they would get a homerun and believed every time they said Son could do it too. j-ORDAN came to Fitz with the information that they were cybernetic in the dugout the first time the spies saw the pitching machine in action. Math even-

Fitz shook themselves from their thoughts, they love their team but it's research time at the moment. They took a sip of their tea trying to center themselves on the typed out documents.

The hours slipped past Fitz like sand through their fingers. Their cup had run dry of tea after about hour two but they kept bringing it to their face out of habit. The scratching of their pen was meditative, their hand would be slightly stained with ink if their hand was more physical that smoke.

Light shined into the hall by the small window in the overall pitch dark walkway. Somehow Comfy fixed the old record player a few months ago so the room where fitz worked wasn’t a pin drop silence, but the music was soft enough to hear the crickets outside. 

Time clicked by as a second pair of shoes made their way into the board room. Fitz's attention was captured in the typed pages in information to where they didn't notice the other person in the room making its way to Fitz’s side.

“Do you realize what time it is Mx.Blackburn?” Math’s voice spoke as a hand rested on Fitz’s shoulder. A small jolt is all Math felt under Math’s hand.

“God damn- Math!!” Fitz clutches at their chest with the small fright they just had, “The hell was that!?”

“Fitzgerald, it's 3 am during the siesta. What are you doing?” Math asked looking as fitz as well as Math could. Being the living embodiment of mathematics makes it difficult to be very personable, but all Math can do is try. 

“Gods, Math please don't remind me,” Fitz’s hand was brought to their brow as Math squeezed their shoulder. A small grumble sat in their chest that Math could only slightly feel.

“About the time of night or the siesta?” Math questioned with some sort of concern on the voice.

“I-uh…” they sounded exhausted, “the siesta I guess? I don’t know Math, it's odd. Our lives aren’t in danger from sudden death or our team being torn apart through feedback. We just get to stay here like sitting ducks until some random god seems fit for us to go back on the field and be ready to die…” Fitz trails off shifting their hands among the papers they were working on.

Fitz could feel Math’s senses on them, Math doesn't really have eyes but they could definitely feel whatever let Math see was all on them. The shadowy monster of the spies just sat letting Math look over them, letting themselves be watched. 

Being on the main stage of the ILB, being watched was a normal occurrence for Fitz. They were a being composed almost entirely of smoke, of course they would be watched in any situation. But this felt different, Math’s gaze always held an off weight to it. It wasn’t of disapproval, more of concentration. Somehow they could read the numbers whizzing past to makes 

“Gerald…” Math sighed. Math didn’t pull that name out very often, it was on when Fitz needed a breakthrough, and this seemed like the time. Math pulls over a chair and sits next to Fitz. Math’s hands pull Fitz to face the numbers, hands placed on their knees as Math leaned over to get into their space. 

“Just because we are not about to die doesn’t make us less than who we are in the game, you are still you.” Math squeezes their knees, “Gerald, you are more than just this team, more than just this agency! Just because you live on the field that doesn't mean you have to stay on there once you are free. You become so enlightened in the game but you need to remember that you can't always play. You’ve done so much for all of us and I want you to take a break, as we all are.”

Fitz stares at Math for a moment, the words ring and rattle in their head. Did they really just leave  _ everything _ on the field? The longer away from the field they were while knowing they won't be coming back for a month did something to them. Who are they without it? With everything they have gone through with several of these spies would they be able to go back to that?

The red glow of the shelled ones shined in their mind, the view of the sky being ripped open haunts their mind when they sit in the dugout. Each crack of a bat grounded them to the moment, to running to the next base, to being further. 

None of the spies were hurt during that day, but images of what could have happened still sprinkled in with the anxiety of being the shelled one again. They know the Hall Monitor took care of that whole situation, but then it was replaced by a new god. And a new wave of nerves comes through, a new unknown and a new chance to have everyone ripped away. 

“Gerry!” Math almost shouts. Fitz can feel two hands on their cheeks as Math holds their face, “you need to get to sleep, Gerry. We can talk tomorrow if you’d like.”

“If I sleep I’ll just fade away, Math. And I can’t do that to myself right now.” All air of grandeur that Fitz had built up was just torn away by a string of numbers. It feels nice for them, for once to let someone else take their pain.

“Would you like for me to lay down with you?” Math asks, stroking Fitz’s cheek. Math’s words are light, like a feather, trying to dance a delicate waltz. Math took a hand away from Fitz’s face and offered it to them.

Fitz’s hand still had a shake when it grabbed onto Math’s. As the two of them stood up Math didn’t let go of their hand. Math pulled forward and Fitz walked behind out of the light of the lamps into the dark of the hall. The two of them have their feet fall somehow in time with each other. The rhythm helps Fitz breathe properly, grabbing a hold to a rope and pulling themselves up from their own mind.Math gave them that rope and they were grateful. 

Maybe Fitz didn't have to be feared, maybe now being not so alone and safe, they are allowed to fear.


End file.
